Virus I

by Rita Kiefer

When the spell is on, she chants

all the names he used: hypocrite, liar, sloth. 

She tries harder.  And harder.  The doctors

dismiss her:  temperature’s  normal, low side

even : sensitive type, all in her head.   Her left

eye droops, muscules go on strike, joints carp. 

She trips on stairs, door sills. Telephone cords

tangle her feet.  Everyone’s verdict: clumsy.

              From the dream room she shouts to

herself directions for learning to walk again,

the alphabet refuses to assemble, her tongue

stares limp at the roof of her mouth. 

But it will end. End, a dependable word.  

Dependable as the immortal virus waiting

like a phoenix with one eye open, focused on

the next promise of ash. Still at 4 a.m. the litany

of inner chatter: diagnosis, cure, shame.

Always it ends in shame.